At bedtime the other night, Justin was reading to me from one of our many Amazing Fact books. The page he was focused on had 100 facts about stars. I was only half listening as he read through the list one by one.

“Number 63: Before they had compasses, sailors used the North Star to help guide their ships in the right direction,” he announced, then paused. I looked at him.

“Oh,” he said, nodding his head sagely. “They got help from Santa.”

So not only does he have an appalling grasp of astronomy, but at age 10 and a half, he clearly still believes a fat stranger in a red suit slips down our chimney every Christmas. And whether it’s thanks to his talent for living in his own world, his aversion to change, or his unwillingness to get off the gravy train, he will likely continue to believe that for quite some time.

Not that I’m dissing the magic of Santa. I have many fond memories of staring out the window on Christmas Eve hoping to catch a glimpse of some reindeer…being too excited to sleep…sneaking into my brothers’ room at 4 a.m. to sing Christmas carols until it was time to go see what Santa brought. I was happy to give my kids the same experience.

It’s just that I really thought they would have figured it out by now. (Brayden might be getting close: he did notice that the last loonie he got from the tooth fairy had traces of Mom’s hand lotion on it.) I have a hard enough time coming up with one decent gift idea for them, let alone two (plus stockings!) so it would be really nice if they could wise up. Then they could move on to a mature appreciation of the true meaning of Christmas.

Or at least stop arguing about which mall has the “real” Santa.